I hate September 11. I didn’t sleep well last night, tossing and turning and waking every hour to allow angry thoughts to run circles in my head, a dizzying and infuriating cycle I’ve been caught in every year since. Gawker’s been light-hearted about it all day, and it’s nice to see that and it’s gut-wrenching to see that. I don’t have it in me just yet.
So, frankly, it sucked hardcore to wake up this morning to the news that Anna Nicole Smith’s 20-year-old son Daniel died yesterday in the Bahamas, not 3 days after she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. It felt like I’d been punched in the stomach, a visceral reaction, which isn’t at all commonplace for me in this world of celebrity comings and goings. Maybe it’s because this whole day always feels like one solid suckerpunch. But I always had a fondness for that kid — I remember watching him as a teenager on The Anna Nicole Show, and he came across as strikingly grounded amidst the insanity of his life, aware of the absurdity of it all and able to observe from a distance. To be in it but not of it. I was, just vaguely, interested to see who he’d grow up to be. I’m genuinely sorry that I won’t have that chance, and I’m sorry that Anna won’t, either.